


I Took The Kill Shot

by this_is_the_end



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Mass Effect 2, Shepard's death, also, i suck at tagging things, i'll try and tag them but always feel free to tell me, may contain some triggers?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_the_end/pseuds/this_is_the_end
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"If this ends with the both of us dying in a giant explosion killing a Reaper, just remember: I took the kill shot."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Don't Know What To Do With All The Grey

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally based off the concept of a story I was attempting to write a long time ago. Since that time I have discovered a wonderfully different writing style and have been messing around with that lately. So, then this happened. There will be other chapters to come but I don't know how frequently I will be posting.
> 
> Enjoy!

He counts the days like oxygen. He counts each month with each labored breath and he knows that she is _gone_. He counts them as they trail down his spine and settle somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He counts the days just as surely as he counts the bullets soaring through skulls. Each is a tally mark plastered on his skin and tattooed into the palms of his hands - the bruises that form take the place of _her_ and surely there is an end to all this darkness. He hardens his spine and steps forward and breathes through the fumes of death until her voice no longer resonates in his ribcage. He counts until his breathing _stops_.

Her voice is a mantra that is pressed to his temples and it is cursed with the connotations of memories and the heartbeat that had once been pressed under his palm. Her voice is each breath she took while laughing and she is every freckle he ever counted on her skin - her voice is hissed in the darkness of the nightmares and it is the song that he hears deep in his bones. Her voice is an echo laced in his as he _shouts_ the truth to the crowds but is met with only deaf ears. His words are empty threats that are shoved to the sidelines and then he is drowning in the bottom of another shot glass.

He counts the months with rifles and bullets. He strings them together in a form of macabre poetry that sinks into his blood and pools blue at his feet with every move he is too slow to dodge. He ignores the bruises that she would scold him for and takes his battle scars in droves. He peels them off his skin and shoves another layer of coping on top and hopes that _no one can see_. They would rather he be a lunatic than face the end of the galaxy. He counts the months with another rifle and hopes that it gets better - the black of gunpowder stares back at him and momentarily sings in her voice.

He prays to his gods - _but when have they ever listened_ \- and he wishes her back into existence. In his wish he runs his hands over hers and revels in her smooth skin. He runs his hands through her hair and knows that the red is now ashes on a distant planet. The truth stings at him like a bullet wound that has never healed. It is a scar that he has peeled and that now sits in a mason jar - the truth is 5 shots in and it is weak-knees and it is the knowledge that _she is dead._ The truth is the nightmares at 3 and the nausea at 6 and the alcohol at 7 - it is sunrises blurred by intoxication and it is sunsets viewed through black and white lenses. The truth is what is killing him just as it killed her.

He begins to count the kills with a deeper meaning laced into their corpses. He counts them and taunts and sings a song that is never sung sober. He breathes through the fog of alcohol and thinks to himself that somewhere she is rolling in her unofficial grave. He counts the months but soon even her voice leaves his addled mind. He begins to count the kills and the bullets and the broken rifles for _sport_ and then her voice is no longer in his chest.

He stops breathing and lives only in grey.

He doesn’t hear her voice.


	2. Chest Caving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Archangel?" The name was said in a voice that was honey and smooth and golden. The name was his and he had to respond but how do you face the ghost of the woman you -_
> 
>  
> 
> _"You're alive." And then it was his voice shaking through his helmet and it was his hand moving to remove the piece of armor. It was his voice speaking syllables had had only prayed for and it was his body that moved and turned and faced her. He averted his eyes immediately because he **couldn't**. He was exhausted and this had to be some kind of dream. He couldn't look at her because he knew there would be scars and there would be something different. How was he supposed to look at a dead woman and feel anything other than hollow?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter - I loved writing this one, so enjoy!

There was a rumor. It was a rumor of red and an echo of gunshots. It was a whisper of her name in the wind as he lined up his next shot. It was red hair spilling from a helmet and a cascade of curls that struck a bit too closely too home. There was a rumor that was spreading through the ranks and he was busy trying to ignore the questions and pointed stares. He claimed calibrations more than he ever had in the past and shut his doors to the inquiries.

There was a rumor that lasted months. There was a rumor that she had been brought back and he had the fleeting thought that maybe his gods had listened. There was a rumor that stung at the bottom of each glass now and there was a rumor that he could not shake from his head. The red was a startling contrast against the black and white and somehow they began to meld together. There was a rumor that shattered into his bones and rattled his breathing.

The chaos struck in the form of betrayal. The bullets weren't enough to stop the coward and then it was him against the world. There was a codename engraved on each bullet but the sorrow was there as well. There would be nightmares from this turn of events and they would be boiling blue with the rage in his veins. There was revenge stinging in his veins but it was pushed aside by the thought of _If I make it through all this_. Each threat to Sidonis was punctuated by a gunshot and the smell of innocent rotting corpses around him. Each threat was drowned in the chaos of the moment and every bullet was proving to not be enough. The rumor stung in the back of his mind with determination and words of encouragement. There were _commands_ in the words and his bones ached for them to be _real_ and constructed from anything other than exhaustion.

Days blurred and nights hummed with an electricity that prevented sleep. They stung with the bite of nightmares and hissed with the stench of the bodies he was avenging. The nights were as red as _her_ and somehow the rumor began to be his hope and his last tie to reality. It was his tether to the world and she was there over his shoulder aiming his shots with a joke and a wide smile. The ache in his heart pulsed through his whole body.

There was a hollow spot in his chest, cavernous and battered. It was filled with the echo of her voice and her startling green eyes. There was a spot in his chest that entertained the idea of this rumor and that wanted to believe she was more than just a memory. His chest caved in and shattered at the sight of red hair on the battlefield. His breathing stopped and his hands shook and his gun dropped to the ground as he fell to his knees. The world spun around him and his whole being shook with labored breaths and a mind caving in on itself.

Gunshots rang around him and plastered to his skin - he smelled the scent of gunpowder and then it was _her_ mixed in. It was the smell of her perfume whistling through the air - it was the memory of her walking through the Normandy with purpose behind her steps. It was the memory of her long hair moving as she walked and it was the memory of stray curls hooking around her elbows. The scent was the memory of her laughter and it was the memory of her freckles and bright smile. It was the memory of every smile she had ever given him and every promise she had ever made.

He made it to his feet at the sound of footsteps down the hall. He stood on shaking limbs with his back to the door _because this is not real_ and he took hold of his gun with numb and shaking hands. He tried to even his breathing but there was a ghost in his rib cage that was gripping his heart and choking off his air supply. He tried to support himself and push away the tendrils of madness that were eagerly lapping at the edges of his mind.

"Archangel?" The name was said in a voice that was honey and smooth and _golden_. The name was his and _he had to respond_ but how do you face the ghost of the woman you -

"You're alive." And then it was his voice shaking through his helmet and it was his hand moving to remove the piece of armor. It was his voice speaking syllables had had only prayed for and it was his body that moved and turned and faced her. He averted his eyes immediately because he _couldn't_. He was exhausted and this had to be some kind of dream. He couldn't look at her because he knew there would be scars and there would be something _different_. How was he supposed to look at a dead woman and feel anything other than hollow?

"Garrus." It was his name said in a breath, in a whisper, in a sigh. It was his name - _his name_ \- that he had not heard since he had put on his new persona and ceased to care about the bottles on his floor. It was his name said through lips that had turned to ashes and it was his name said through the air between them _now_ and then it was real.

He looked at her with shaking eyes and numb limbs. He studied her every inch and wanted to know why her shoulders were squared and taut with tension. He could feel the threat crawling up her neck and knew then that there was a story behind the two with her and then it was primal instinct that took over. His teeth hardened into a scowl and a light growl rumbled in his chest but then it was _her_ pressing a hand to his chest and his neck and _on him_. Then it was her so close to him and it was her pulling him back to Omega and back to reality.

"You're alive." He said the words again because somehow he was not capable of saying anything different. He was saying the words because that was the only thought pushing through his mind and it was the only thought that could press itself against his tongue. He looked down at her and caught her bright green eyes and drowned in their depths - he could feel the compassion seeping through him and he could feel her anchoring him down. He pressed a hand to her shoulder and then to her cheek. "You're alive."

There was a moment where his chest expanded and he took a breath that he had so needed. There was a moment where he was lost in her and there was a moment where _nothing else mattered_. There was a moment where time stood still and her scent filled his nose and her touch was all he needed. Her voice filled his comms and her voice was telling him and _commanding him_ and he was back where he belonged. Her voice was with him and he was going to make it out of this and make sure that Sidonis knew his threats would not run empty. There was a vengeance placed in his soul and it burned bright.

His world came crashing down as the rocket hit its mark. He could hear her wail as his world went black. He could hear gunshots distantly but all he could taste was blood. His own blood. The thought sent emotions down his spine and into his muddled mind. Darkness claimed him with one last look at her face and green eyes - red hair was pooling around him as she frantically leaned over him, _trying_. Darkness claimed him with one choked breath.


	3. Lazarus Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Scars were easy to live with. They were lines carved into skin and they were stories that were dying to be told as trophies earned through war. Scars were easy to live with because they had a malleable connotation that could be shaped in a positive light after the nightmares had fled from the host and now there was some semblance of coping. Scars were easy to cope with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter enough to post it. That's about all I'm going to say.

[The 8tracks mix that inspired it all](http://8tracks.com/rhynith/round-and-around-i-go-addicted-to-the-numb-living-in-the-cold)

~~

Scars were easy to live with. They were lines carved into skin and they were stories that were dying to be told as trophies earned through war. Scars were easy to live with because they had a malleable connotation that could be shaped in a positive light after the nightmares had fled from the host and now there was some semblance of coping. Scars were easy to cope with.

Returning from the dead was not. Returning from the dead covered in glowing red scars that screamed of technology she _did not want the answers to_ was not easy to cope with. There was no easy way to begin moving your limbs again and know that every movement was not going to end in _suffocation_ or the _plummet_ burning to the surface of some distant planet. Returning from the dead was nightmares every night and it was fear in her very veins and there was no easy way to even begin coping with it. The only form of relief she could possibly gain was at the bottom of her third drink of whiskey - _try not to think of his eyes._

There was no easy way to look into the mirror and see yourself returned to life when last you had been nothing but ashes. There was no easy way to shake the feeling that you _are not yourself_ and that somehow you really were a puppet to the organization you should hate with every fiber of your being - _his words ringing in her head._ Her eyes bled with tears and her hands scratched at new skin where once there had been scars. She dug into the missing puzzle pieces because she had lost her stories and was a blank canvas - Mindoir was no longer on her body and those were memories that she had finally come to cherish. She carved at stainless steel to mar it and try to break through the tough walls. She scratched and itched and cut and _begged_ for the scars to return and for the red glow to leave her bedroom. She pressed her fingertips where once he had pressed his and her chest shook in sorrow.

She was a walking skeleton that had retained the ability to aim a gun. She was a nightmare put in flesh and she was every wrong step digging under her skin. Her thoughts threatened to eat her alive and she counted them with tally marks against her thigh carved with a pocket knife - _every perfect soldier had one_. Her scars had proved them wrong but now they were gone and she had lost the years of combat that had made her whole. She is left with just the white of her bone marrow to keep her company.

He was enough whiskey to drown it all. He was enough reality to press against her and hold to her chest and hope for normalcy. He was enough to wipe away her bruises and replace them with kisses. He was enough to not drown in the bottom of the bottle and he was enough to cherish the memory as she fell to her death. He had been enough.

And then he had stomped on her heart and demanded she pay the price for _crimes she did not commit_.

Suddenly he was all she could think about for every minute of every day but now it was not with reverence it was with an aching chest and alcohol burning her vision. It was with the memories of nightmares pressing close against where his fingers once had been and it was the knowledge that he would turn against her in a matter of 12 heartbeats - _she had counted_. Now he was a pool of gold at the bottom of a glass and the tears that mixed in with it. He was the heartache at three in the morning and the distinct lack of arms to wrap around her torso. Where once he had held her so close he was now galaxies away _and she was breaking_. She was one bullet away from falling into a puddle of her own blood.

Scars had been easy to live with. Returning from the dead was not.

Scars were what she _craved_ and were what had pushed her deep into Omega with nothing but a pistol in her hand and biotics rumbling underneath her skin. The ache to feel whole was what pressed against her brow as she stared at Joker and wondered where the others were. She wondered where her home had gone - scars were what pressed her on in search of the laughter that had once rang so freely from her chest. Scars were the butterflies that seeped from her blood and caught in her throat - scars were what decorated her trembling for seconds after she dropped the rusted blade in the bathroom sink.

Scars vanished in the pool of blood and the burning gold and she drowned in another bottle f crystalline glass.

He was blue and he was just as broken as her. He was tattered angel wings seeking vengeance for a wrong that had stabbed him through the chest and had taken away his heart. He was blue that chilled her to the bones and he was every virtue that had been ripped from her lungs and given to the depths of space. His eyes held ghosts and she would ask but she knew the feeling of too many questions.

He was blue and he managed to make her _forget_ for a fleeting second that anything was wrong. They bantered and they prodded at each other with jokes that served also as questions in the undertones. They tested the waters with gentle words and each came away with the conclusion that they were ruined souls. He was blue still but she felt as though she had turned to a murky burgundy.

He was there for seconds and then he was in a pool of his own blood and a _sound_ tore from her lips that bordered on animalistic.

 


	4. Glass Half Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They work in an uneasy way. They fit together because she is his commander and he respects her but there is a hum underneath their skin now. He can see the decisions that weigh on her shoulders and he counts every bottle that she downs. He can see it in her eyes though she tries to hide it - he is familiar with her brand of punishment and offers to pour her another glass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love everything about this chapter.  
> So enjoy.

He had constructed a web of lies and had planted himself directly in the center. He had spoken the syllables that twisted and turned and _rotted_ his good intentions and now vengeance had snagged his heart. It hid in the blue of his blood as his world went black.

The flash of red was a nightmare he would for once welcome.

The red was whispering lies of her own. She looked at him with sad green eyes and freckles that looked more constructed now than the scatterings of constellations they once had been. She looked at him with a pronounced lack of scars and he looked back with a collection that reminded him of his failures. He looked back with a sore jaw and a lie already leaving his throat in the form of _I'm fine, Shepard_. She looks back with a red line directly under her eye and she smiles. _Whatever you say, big guy._ And it is then that he knows he has her trust and it is then that he knows her heart has been crushed in just as many ways as his has.

He can see her broken heart in the red lines that cover her wrists and the dark bags underneath her eyes. He can see it because he too has nightmares.

They work in an uneasy way. They fit together because she is his commander and he respects her but there is a hum underneath their skin now. He can see the decisions that weigh on her shoulders and he counts every bottle that she downs. He can see it in her eyes though she tries to hide it - he is familiar with her brand of punishment and offers to pour her another glass.

She studies him with eyes like a hawk. She waits for the snap of his spine under the confession she so wants to hear - she waits for the moment when he becomes the pinnacle of what he had been before. She waits for his old self to emerge from the shadows that ate him alive. He hasn't the heart to tell her that it will be a long time coming - and one murder later - before he can even think about the way things used to be. He hasn't the heart to tell her that things can never be the way they once were.

"Coming back from the dead kinda puts a kink in things," he remarks one time late at night staring at her across a cafeteria table. Her nose crinkles as she raises her glass to her lips. He _doesn't_ notice the freckle in the crook of her wrist.

"Do you really believe in pre-determined fate?" And it is a sour note that is testing him and waiting for him to snap. It is a sour note that slides down her throat. He _doesn't_ watch her perfect skin stretch and move with the action and he _doesn’t_ notice that there is a freckle in the indent of her collarbone. He lowers his eyes and _doesn't_ notice the skip of his heartbeat.

"Anything this sick has got to be pre-determined." He quirks his mandibles at her and she rests her hands on the table. She stares down at them distantly.

"Then what are we fighting for?" Her eyes practically glow when she looks up at him next. "If this is all set in stone, that why are we on this ship right now?"

Any answer he has dies in his throat as she stands. He watches her with a million emotions in his eyes and his mandibles clenched tight in thought. She studies him with eyes like a hawk and finally notices the crack in his defenses. She smiles at him as she passes and rests a hand on his shoulder. He _doesn't_ notice the spark that flies across his skin.

"Seems to me, big guy, that you've got bigger problems than me coming back to life." She leans over behind him, resting her head on his other shoulder and pouring the remnants of her coffee into his glass. He watches it instead of watching her - he _doesn't_ feel her long hair slide down his arm. "You've lost hope."

The revelation comes crashing down around him as she pulls away and her glass clatters into the sink. He counts her footsteps as she leaves just as meticulously as he counts his ragged breaths. He tries not to let the word _hope_ sink too far into his ribcage - he tries to shake the feeling from his chest. Instead, he is left only with the image of her.

He _doesn't_ tell her that he counted 29 freckles across the bridge of her nose. He _doesn't_ tell her that maybe she is the reason he questions fate in the first place.


	5. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are certain chapters you can only write while in a certain frame of mind. Here's my attempt at channeling my shitty day into something more productive.  
> ~  
>  _There were days when she couldn't look in the mirror.  
>  There were days where he could hardly stomach the scars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The 8tracks mix for the story](http://8tracks.com/rhynith/out-of-this-blue-sunday-dream)

There were days when she couldn't look in the mirror. There were days where the monster she had become was so apparent that she cringed at the red that had taken over her entire being. There were days when solace seemed her only solution - those were better than the days when she felt as though she needed to end it all. Those were better than the days that ended in her own blood spilled on the carpet.

There were days where he could hardly stomach the scars. He could count each line and tell you where the rocket had burned the most. He could still feel the metal digging into his skin and he could still feel the fire eating away at him. There were days where he would take the time to trace his fingers along where his blue markings had once been. Where he had once been whole.

She could run her fingers along the lines that traced her hips as easily as she breathed the lies she was spouting. She could taste the ashes of her own corpse lingering in the back of her throat. Every nerve ending told her _this was impossible_. She was a mistake.

He could smell the stench of the bodies around him. He could still feel Sidonis' betrayal right in the center of his heart. With every breath he took it was another reminder that _he had lived and they had not_. He was a mistake.


	6. All Bets Are Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What can I say, Jack? I really **do** live up to the legend they've made me out to be."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fun chapter to break the overwhelmingly depressing mood that this story has taken on.   
> Enjoy!

"There is no way you head-butt a fucking _Krogan_." Garrus watches Jack and doesn't have the heart to tell her that she will lose this bet. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, kicking one foot up onto his knee.

"You really want to test her, Jack?" He drawls in a lazy voice. She quirks an eyebrow at him in open defiance. There's a laugh behind them somewhere that Garrus can easily identify as Tali. Beside him, the Commander sits a perfect stone statue, her face unreadable. Garrus spots the beginnings of a smirk at the corner of her mouth and clicks his mandibles against his jaw to hide his own. Her green eyes slide to his carefully.

"What can I say, Jack?" Shepard leans forward on her elbows, hair sliding over one shoulder in loose curls. Garrus looks back to Jack in a calculating manner, his expression even. "I really _do_ live up to the legend they've made me out to be."

Garrus doesn't comment on the severity that those words hold. He doesn't have to because he can see them dripping in the back of her mind. He wonders if they are metaphorically anything like the blood that always haunts his vision.

"No fucking way. No." Jack slams down a handful of credits. A _generous_ handful of credits. Garrus raises his eyes to look at her just as Shepard does the same. Jack sulks. "How the fuck do you two do that? It's fucking creepy."

Poetry is on the tip of his tongue but he holds it back with only the slight rumble of his subharmonics. Poetry dies in his veins as Shepard looks back to him with a smile genuinely on her face. He wants to breathe that it is the connection of their souls that makes them so in sync. He wants to roll his tongue across the words that years of friendship have instilled into him. He instead stays silent with only another rumble in his chest as he locks eyes with her and attempts to smile back.

"Alright, fucking lovebirds. You're fucking nauseating. You gonna tell me the truth or not?" Jack snaps them away from each other. Shepard gives Garrus a signal he knows only as _go ahead_.

"So, it's my first week on the Normandy SR-1 and Shepard storms out of the elevator-"

Jack loses 500 credits that night.


	7. My Throne is Hypocrisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sidonis. He murdered my people, Shep."_
> 
> _She walked back into the room, stopping to pick up the gun that had been thrown to the floor. She stood studying it for a moment, tracing her fingers gently over its grooves and patterns. She closed the distance between them and stuck the gun out to him._
> 
> _"So go make the bastard pay."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write - sorry about that. Honestly, I can't make any excuses for my absence either - it was just a horrible case of writer's block and a thousand other small things. Anyway, I'm back now and hopefully that means more regular chapters. Hopefully. 
> 
> Always love hearing your comments so feel free to comment as much as you like. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, sorry in advance for what this story will do/has done to your emotions.

[The playlist I made specifically for these two.](http://8tracks.com/rhynith/out-of-this-blue-sunday-dream)

[And its later companion](http://8tracks.com/rhynith/out-of-this-madness-flying-high)

~~

"Garrus." Her greetings were cold now and he looks at her with distant eyes. A wrench dangled between his fingers and cool metal pressed underneath his fingertips. The machine he was working on vibrated a soft melody that ran through to his bones.

"What's up, Shepard?" Her name had lost its connotation and had turned hollow. His tongue didn't feel the same upon the syllables.

"Something's bothering you." And it wasn't a question. Distantly, he wondered what had tipped her off. He thought that maybe it could have been the rigidity that had seared itself into his spine or the way that his muscles were always wound too tight. He thought that maybe it could have been the way his scars had bent and warped around his anger. He didn't think she could understand subharmonics. The wrench fell to the counter with a barely concealed shock of nerves.

"Could say the same about you." He replied with a twist of irony in his words. She arched an eyebrow at him and rest a hand on her hip.

"I haven't missed any of _my_ targets recently, Vakarian." And it was pure malicious intent in her words now. She was pushing him with facts she knew would stab through his weakened defenses. He snapped his eyes to hers with a glare completely unconcealed.

His mind hissed that he should retaliate - that it was _none of her damned business_ what was going on with him. He wanted to sink his talons into something and roar his anger - instead, a growl laced itself tight within her name. "Shepard."

"What's going on, Vakarian?" She pressed forward and there was a shift in her finer qualities - a shift from Shepard to _Commander_. "I'm not asking as your friend."

"Is that what we are?" He quipped, taking a step around her and shoving his shoulder against hers. He ignore the spark of scales against flesh and tried to straighten his thoughts. "I wasn't sure."

"Don't dodge the question. I'm done playing nice, Vakarian." She snagged his wrist in a viper-like motion and everything was set ablaze. He whirled on her and shoved her back against the main gun in the battery, a roar escaping his bared teeth and spread mandibles. The cool metal pressed against his abdomen was the only warning he was going to receive.

"You have no right to ask about this, Shepard. You have no right." He pushed away and disarmed her gun in a forceful and robotic movement. He heard her curse.

" _No right_? Fuck you, Garrus." She slammed her hands against his chest and he stumbled backwards into the counter. Her gun clattered to the floor but his eyes were glued on her. Her eyes were locked on his with a ferocious anger. "I earned the right to care about my best friend _years_ ago and just because you have a stick up your scaly ass does not mean that I stopped caring." She shoved him again and then roundhouse kicked him in the abdomen. He crumbled to his knees with a rush of air slammed from his lungs. "Fuck you for thinking that I don't care."

He stared at the steel ground and his ears rang with thoughts. His lungs seared with labored breaths and his whole world shook. He snapped his arm up in time to barely stop her fist from connecting with his jaw. He rose in a swift motion and twisted her arm around her back, drawing her in against his chest. She heaved another curse.

"You're a goddamn hypocrite, Shep." He practically bit at her ear as he snarled the words against her skin. She connected an elbow with his side and twisted around again, a punch soaring towards his jaw again. He caught it and slammed her back against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head. "Just because you died doesn't mean I stopped caring."

Her knee connected with his abdomen.

"Fuck you."

She stormed out of the battery. He fell back against the counter and shut his eyes. His whole body ached and shook and his nerves were practically on fire.

"Shepard, wait." The angry steps stopped. He didn't open his eyes. "We Turians aren't… we aren't known for our ability to cope." He opened his eyes slowly and looked over to see her expression softening. Her hands were still clenched in tight fists.

"So break the norm, Vakarian." Her voice was hoarse. "Thought I taught you that when we fought Saren."

He smirked and let his head roll back against the cabinets under the counter. "Sidonis. He murdered my people, Shep."

She walked back into the room, stopping to pick up the gun that had been thrown to the floor. She stood studying it for a moment, tracing her fingers gently over its grooves and patterns. She closed the distance between them and stuck the gun out to him.

"So go make the bastard pay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Made another mix on 8tracks after I wrote this chapter. [ Here ](http://8tracks.com/rhynith/my-throne-is-hypocrisy)


	8. The Acrimony of Acid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You keep forgetting that you aren't alone. You aren't the only one, Garrus."_
> 
> _She doesn't clarify, not at first. She leaves it up to him to decipher what she has joined him in - the suffering, the nightmares, the alcoholism, the scars and self-loathing - and she keeps their gazes locked evenly. He notices her shaking hands a second before she hides them behind her back or by holding her pistol just a bit tighter. He watches as she swallows a lump in her throat and counts the seconds before she speaks again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow - two chapters in one day!? What is this madness??

Was this to prove that Sidonis still somehow had a shred of humanity left in him? Was this her tactic to make Garrus see that Sidonis was already a dead man walking? It was her attempt to make him see that Sidonis was a skeleton hollowed and beaten by his own cowardice. Why the _fuck was it working_? Why did he find himself thinking only of the guilt that was eating away at his stomach, peeling it away one acidic churn at a time? He couldn't get past the tremor in Sidonis' voice - _the fucking tremble in his subharmonics_ \- as he stared down the scope at the back of Shepard's head.

"What the hell was that, Shep?" And he is roaring anger at her and demanding answers. He is done dancing around her superior fragility in this damned cycle of events and he is biting the bullet. She stares at him and the only thought searing its way into his mind is how those bright eyes had stared back up at him through the scope of his gun. How he had set his sights on her and for the briefest of seconds he had thought of just taking a chance. He'd made riskier shots in the past.

"That wasn't you, Garrus. He's already paid for his crimes -"

"No, he _hasn't_ , Shepard!" Garrus is harsh and he is yelling and _damn_ when did his voice get so loud? When did it startle him to hear it escape his chest and since when did she _wince_ at his every movement? "He's a fucking coward - just because he claims to have nightmares doesn't mean anything!"

"Garrus, you aren't thinking straight." She took a step forward, tender and timid. He towers over her, his chest heaving with anger.

"And you just know everything about me, don't you?" His words are biting but it is too late to stop them now. They are out of the cage and he is putting substance to the demons in his head. "Coming back from the dead has made you all-knowing, has it?"

He wishes he could take the words back. He wishes he could swallow them whole and shove them back into the cavernous expanse that is his chest. He wishes he could burn them - _anything_ to stop the expression of complete betrayal that flashes across her face and reverberates down her spine. He thinks he can see it reach her toes and it is then that everything sinks in.

"You're not a killer, Garrus." Her voice is small and her face is contorted in a way he has never seen. There is a crinkle between her eyebrows that he studies intently - _he fucked up this time, didn't he?_

"I kill people everyday, Shepard. We kill people for a living." He turns his back to her, hand tight on his rifle. He moves with rusted joints, his footsteps echoing against the metal of the ship. He hears only silence behind him.

"Is this what you think justice is?"

Her words come as he stands in the doorway, bright lights catching on his armor. Her voice is light and careful - she's a borderline politician, after all - and he wants to comment on that fact. He holds his tongue, turning to look over his shoulder at her. He sees her with her head lowered, buried behind a curtain of loose red curls. _He did this to her._

"My definition's changed, Shep. When your whole squad is murdered -"

"When you come back from the dead."She cuts him off and looks up with burning eyes. He nearly chokes. "You keep forgetting that you aren't alone. You aren't the only one, Garrus."

She doesn't clarify, not at first. She leaves it up to him to decipher what she has joined him in - the suffering, the nightmares, the alcoholism, the scars and self-loathing - and she keeps their gazes locked evenly. He notices her shaking hands a second before she hides them behind her back or by holding her pistol just a bit tighter. He watches as she swallows a lump in her throat and counts the seconds before she speaks again.

"You have this sick idea that you need to suffer by yourself, that it's pitiful to reach out and ask for help." Her lips twist around the words in a way that has been practiced. He wonders how many times she has had to tell herself this very same speech. He tries not to think of her standing in front of her mirror, speaking these words to her marred reflection. "You don't seem to understand that there are people out there that want to help you. That people care about you."

They lock eyes again and this time it is more tentative and gentle. They are both asking questions that neither of them know how to answer yet.

"So what's your excuse, Shep?" And it isn't a question, not really, because he already knows. She has the whole world on her shoulders - she's been juggling this pain for years. The expression on her face twists a bit sour at his inquiry and she stills. Her eyes travel to her gun and he wonders what dark demons are dancing around in her head now.

"Don't have one." She bites her lip. "My best friend has just been too busy wallowing in his own anguish lately."

And the sharp words stab him right in the chest and he visibly recoils with a slightly audible gasp. His talons curl around his rifle and he feels his nerves shake at the very idea that it was his fault she was suffering alone. His mandibles flare and he watches her with shocked eyes.

"Laia…" Her name is off his tongue before he thinks. She gives him a small smile at this and begins to move. He can see her frayed nerves under the surface and wants to reach out. She stops him with a hand to his arm and a gentle smile again.

"You aren't alone, Garrus." She takes his rifle and places both their weapons on the rack. His hands fall limply to his side. "Redefine what Justice means to you."

She flashes her bright eyes at him once more before she walks out the door, hair swaying behind her. He watches with a numb body, head ringing in the silence that follows the turmoil of emotions boiling in his veins. He closes his eyes and lets loose a slow rumble of subharmonics.

"There are people that care for you too, Shep." He whispers to no one but himself.


	9. Reach and Flexibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She pushes off him easily and tosses her remaining glove onto the table. She's sauntering out the door as he is getting to his feet, looking after her with an unreadable expression on his face. She looks over her shoulder at him and thinks that the blue of his eyes should have been alarming - the fact that his mere presence sent butterflies straight to her stomach and set her nerves on fire - those were things that should have been blaring alarms. The way he had gotten past all her defenses and had grabbed hold of her sick, beaten and bruised heart - that should have been enough to make her realize sooner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we can all agree that the original rendition of this scene was painful to play through, I have taken it upon myself to rewrite it in a much more fitting manner to my story.  
> Also,  
> I've made the dorks much better at flirting. (That first time was just horrendous)  
> Enjoy!

The red staining her knuckles should have been alarming. It should have sent panic straight to her throat and it should have shocked her brain back into reality. Instead, she drowned in the deep maroon. She stared at it with a slack-jaw and a curse dying on the tip of her tongue. Memories slammed through her head and grabbed hold of her lungs, pulling her into the dark abyss of space. The hiss of air leaving her suit was pressing up against her ears and she was _dying again_ -

"Shepard!"

Blue sparks into her vision and she snaps to life. Her hand falls to her side and she twists to face him, hiding it nimbly behind her back. She swallows the lump in her throat and tries to hear past the helicopter that her heart has become. The beat is thundering through her bloodstream and is threatening to leak out through her ears. Her hand shakes behind her back.

"What's up, Garrus?" Her teeth clatter over the words with a second of hesitance. She stutters and that is all he needs to hear to know that something is wrong. In their broken worlds, they can read each other as easily as open books. To his credit, he doesn't move. He keeps still and the only hint she receives is the small flicker of light leaving his bright blue eyes and a word or two of holographic text flitting across his visor. The silence brews thick between them.

"You seemed out of it for a bit." He looks behind her to the punching bag still swinging in the air. She looks away when his eyes flit to the bloodstain that is unmistakably _hers_ on the wall beside the bag. Her nails dig into her palm and draw more blood. Her whole hand aches. "Think the punching bag got the worst of it, though."

"Was there a reason you came down here?" She moves then, to force the air of normalcy she is trying to portray to become a reality. She hides her hand in the pocket of her pants. "Or was it just to criticize my methods, Vakarian?"

She trills the question with a playful note and he catches it. His eyes flicker and he scans her over once more. More text flickers across his visor. She smirks openly at him and tosses her hair over her shoulder with her uninjured hand. She moves carefully to the gloves laying on the table and tosses him a pair. He catches them easily, his only inquiry a raised eyebrow plate. A smile is her only reply.

"I would never insult my Commander, Shepard." His voice is light. The rumble in his chest is playful, that much she can tell. She wonders briefly at the story that his subharmonics are telling as she shoves her hands into her pair of boxing gloves, hiding the blood beneath another surface. They move into defensive positions seamlessly.

"How do Turians normally handle this sort of thing?" Shepard throws the first punch. He dodges it and shoves her back easily - she swears she hears him laugh at her. She ignores the ache in her knuckles and moves light on her feet.

"What sort of thing are you referring to?" He lashes out at her and she moves out of the way, only to have his other hand come soaring towards her abdomen. She blocks it at the last second, stumbling back with the force of the blow. "If you're talking about sparring, there are usually a lot more talons involved." She punches and he moves out of the way. "If you're talking about suicide missions -"

He moves gracefully in a flurry of motion that she can barely follow. She manages to dodge his first few blows but then she is on her back, hair splayed out behind her and chest heaving as the air rushes from her lungs. Her own hands are gripping at his arm in some attempt to push him off - he only closes in closer and pins her there. They are inches apart.

"There are lots of tie-breakers." His voice is deep and it is purring and if she hadn't been breathless already, she would have been then. She stares at him with wide eyes, certain that her blush has already betrayed her. He presses closer still and her brain is sent into overdrive, all her nerves fried. Her limbs are numb as she drowns in his presence.

"Tie breakers?" Her voice is hoarse and small and choppy - _did she always sound like this?_ \- and her brain isn't registering a single word she's saying.

"Turian ships have all sorts of fighting simulations, sparring rings - there was one mission I definitely remember." He moves then and helps her to her feet. He pulls just forcefully enough to pull free the glove, taking her bloodied hand in his own. She stares at her pale hand laying in his scaled talons and watches as he traces over her knuckles slowly. "We were at each others throats, this other Turian and me. We were the top hand-to-hand specialists."

He leads her slowly and she follows with her eyes still locked on their hands. He parts only briefly, gathering some medi-gel and scooping some onto his fingers before he presses it to her battered flesh. She winces at first but his grip tightens around her hand just enough to hold her in place. She looks up, then, locking eyes with him.

"I had reach. She had flexibility." The smirk on his face is priceless and Shepard actually finds herself laughing. Her head falls forward and her curls cascade around her. She watches their hands again. Even after the medi-gel is applied, he holds her hand in his, tracing her knuckles slowly. Sparks fly across her skin and her heart is still beating helicopter fast. She looks up again.

"So let's skip straight to the tie breaker, Vakarian." The lilt in her voice is unmistakable and the shift in her body is even more so. She moves closer with a simple shift of her hips and presses into what little of his personal space she had not already taken up. The shock on his face was priceless.

"Didn't think you felt that way, Shepard." His voice is low as he leans down, their faces mere inches apart. Her thoughts scatter and her breathing echoes through her chest as her hand tightens around his involuntarily. She bites her lip and tries to stop the heat she feels spreading up her cheeks. The blue of his eyes is absolutely mesmerizing.

"You look like you need to work out some tension." Her voice is a whisper. She sees him swallow and she smirks. In a single motion, she kicks his legs out from underneath him and sends him falling to the floor. She straddles him, her hand on his throat and the other pinning his hand to the ground. His free hand has grabbed hold of her thigh, digging his talons into the fabric of her pants. She leans over him and presses her lips against his ear. "We can test your reach and my flexibility."

She pushes off him easily and tosses her remaining glove onto the table. She's sauntering out the door as he is getting to his feet, looking after her with an unreadable expression on his face. She looks over her shoulder at him and thinks that the blue of his eyes should have been alarming - the fact that his mere presence sent butterflies straight to her stomach and set her nerves on fire - those were things that should have been blaring alarms. The way he had gotten past all her defenses and had grabbed hold of her sick, beaten and bruised heart - that should have been enough to make her realize sooner.

"Think about it, Garrus." And then she is gone in a single twist of red hair.


	10. Wax Poetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Shepard." Her name trills between his teeth. Wide eyes look up at him._
> 
> _"What's up, Garrus?" And she tucks a curl behind her ear - his throat closes around the words as his heart jackhammers out of his chest. She smiles up at him and her noses **crinkles** ever-so-slightly and he is **lost.**_
> 
> _"I've been thinking about what you said."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently fanfiction is really the only thing I can write so, here! have another chapter!

When she's lost in the mechanics of her guns, her hair is in a state of chaos. She tangles one hand in it and pulls, twisting the curls around her fingertips and holding the unruly red mass out of her face. He sees that she has a band around her wrist, supposedly meant to hold her hair back. She never seems to remember it's there. There's grease on her fingertips and it smears into her hair and along the bridge of her nose. Her forehead is covered in it and she's lucky she remembers not to bite at her fingernails when they're like this. The tools in her hands are just as grease-covered.

When she is lost in paperwork, the grease on her fingers is gone and replaced by the glow of her datapad. One hand holds a cup of coffee that she periodically manages to refill. Her eyes flit across the screen lightning fast - her hair is now pulled back, but she still twirls the ends around her fingers. The longer she stays absorbed in the glowing words, the more curls break free. As the night drags on, he is the one to come refill her coffee.

She finds the smallest nook to curl up in on the ship. She is rarely seen in her cabin and he has thought of asking her about that. Every time the topic comes up, she dodges it like she would dodge a bullet. So, he is the one to find her and make sure she remembers food. He's told that humans are constantly forgetful of that. She always takes it with a smile and a brief look away from her datapad. Some nights, there are rings under her eyes and the startling green orbs are bloodshot. Those are the nights that he takes the datapad away from her forcefully and practically shoves her into the elevator. At the mention of sleep, her whole body tenses.

He notices more and more of the small things that make her tick. Mention of her death sends a chill down her spine and causes her shoulders to square and her jaw to set. Mention of space and stars gets her hands to shake and her eyes to close, her breath erratic. Mention of sleep is a slap to the face and a reminder of how many rings are under her eyes.

He tries not to ask questions - he wants to respect her space and give her time. But there is something distinctly venomous about the thoughts he can see worming their way into her head. He's always been able to read her like a book and the words he sees now breathe the tale she cannot. He can see the torment in her bones even if she refuses to acknowledge it. He can see her good intentions twisting into the malicious promise of revenge rather than peace. He can see her morals withering.

He sees her slipping away under the ocean of death that has consumed the universe and wonders how he can pull her back to him. Wonders how he can anchor her in what he wants to define as "reality" - then he faces the harsh truth that if this is their "reality", that the universe truly is falling apart around them. He doesn't know if he believes in fate any longer. This was too twisted to be the design of the thousands of Gods and Deities watching over the universe.

Instead, what he notices are the small smiles that grace her face periodically. He notices the late nights and counts them - they match with his quite frequently and he calculates the odds of that statistic. He counts the cups of coffee he brings her and watches as her eyes slowly turn more red around the edges. He smiles to himself when he finds her later, hunched over the table, sound asleep. When he carries her to her room, there are some nights where she won't let go. He wonders if she knows she clings to him - wonders if she feels the same as he does.

~~~

"Shepard." Her name trills between his teeth. Wide eyes look up at him.

"What's up, Garrus?" And she tucks a curl behind her ear - his throat closes around the words as his heart jackhammers out of his chest. She smiles up at him and her nose _crinkles_ ever-so-slightly and he is _lost_.

"I've been thinking about what you said."


End file.
